Mutiny
by Rungian Analysis
Summary: He may have been fired and shanghaied, but it would take a lot more than that to keep Arthur Kirkland from the Captain's chair. England centered, may be expanded into a series if it's well received.  Happy birthday XiaNumber14!


**Author's Note: **Happy birthday XiaNumber14! (On deviantART). Hope you all enjoy! (Sorry for the poor quality, I'll edit it in the morning.)

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><p>"Swab faster ya rapscallions!"<p>

It was six months ago when I was shanghaied off Lancaster's shores in a drunken stupor. Having lost my prized title of privateer, I did as any gentleman would and went to the nearest pub to nurture a pint of gin that would help heal my ailing pride. Reflecting back now made me realize how foolish it was to so loudly proclaim my sorrows to the crowd of thugs, to exclaim in great detail how truly _unjust_ it was for me to lose a position of such standing all because of a mere _rumor_.

"Pick up the pace!"

I knew better, of course, than to inform strangers of my skills with sails, but gin was rather good at loosening more than worries. Really, I should have thought about that before I even entered the establishment, known right off to start that I would be a prime candidate for crimps. I might as well had worn my uniform in and loudly proclaimed _my name is Arthur Kirkland, ex. Captain of the English Rose, ex. Privateer, no family, no friends, currently homeless, and I need a job!_ It would essentially be equally as foolish as my original plunder.

"Kirkland!"

Since day one I was on deck duty, but unlike someone in my situation with my qualifications, I hadn't risen from it. Either they feared what I may do with such power, or my tongue kept me in place (I don't need alcohol to speak insults, that happens naturally, and my hatred was no secret). Regardless, they underestimated me: I had run my own ship; I knew _exactly_ how they worked, and not just the mechanics. The crew makes the ship, not the captain, and it was clear how most of them came to be on this ship. The same resentment burned in their eyes as it did in mine.

So I did what I do best; I plotted.

"It's time, Kirkland, move yer keister!"

They may have taken my sword, my pistol, and my pride, but they would never take away my wit. I didn't make the same mistake twice and avoided gin to the best of my ability, and talked with those who lacked such a skill first. An influenced mind is easy to kinder, and soon my name was whispered to their sober friends. Words may not be my best attribute, but my constant defiance certainly encouraged enough of the other hands to follow my lead.

Which brings me to my current situation.

"Your dance with Jack Ketch is _now_."

Or so they would like to think.

The sword (_my _sword) pressed to the lower of my back kept me moving, weaving through the crew who kept looking back at me with mixed looks of apprehension and excitement. The provost was prodding me (with a grin that was missing a few teeth) to the quarter deck, so my hanging may be a spectacle for all the crew to see; I was going to be the 'example'. The Captain himself was coming from his cabin, the only place of luxury on such a ship, decorated in his vivid coat with its gold fastenings, the tricorne embroidered to flow with the elaborate feather that stuck from it, to watch. His grin was mentally disturbed as his eyes watched my trek from low point to high.

"Kirkland," he started in such a voice that sent shivers running down my back in disgust, "it seems that tongue of yours has finally done you in." There was great pleasure in his eyes as he spoke, anticipation for the fresh stench of death high. It was only by his skill did he keep title, I was sure of it, but with a lack of proper raiding to show it was down to luck and chance. I was counting on him being a lesser man at fencing; I knew he wouldn't run when I did-

"Why do you have that look on your face?" He demanded, expression instantly souring.

_This._

One well aimed elbow to the gut weakened the provost's hold on his weaponry and the sword -_which had been mine_- was released, allowing me to gain the upper hand. Quickly my nine lives took over as I griped the custom handle in my hand and barrel rolled to the side to avoid a boot that crashed down where I had just been: it broke the floor boards. I swiped as I stood, having to duck almost instantly as I did so as the Captain's own blade joined the flurry (by now the provost had pulled his scabbard).

This was the catalyst everyone had been waiting for. Almost instantly all hell broke loose, and I grew a grin nearly as mad as Captain Crazy. On the main deck my months of careful planning was paying off, the crew quickly disposing of the officers over board, turning the water a murky red. _Who isn't with us is against us._ They learn fast.

"I'll be taking this ship!"

Needless to say, they weren't amused, and it was with great flourishes that I somehow managed to keep two armed men back with one sword. (And those pricks in the navy said I didn't have any talent!) My adrenaline was rushing high at this point, nerves strung, wit fried, and instinct took over as the fencer. _Flick, fleche, In Quartata_... Every move I had ever learned was coming back to me now in rapid succession. I waited for a chance, when...

There!

As the Captain went for an envelopment, trusting the provost to guard him if fail, I went in for the froissement, _and succeed_. With that fatal error I took the long sword into my hand with a (if I may say) impressive catch, reveling in a talent that usually went unappreciated. Each blade point was held beneath a chin (the provost having foolishly made a poorly calculated pass), and victory was obvious.

I didn't wait for parting words before ramming forward, feeling resistance against the blade before warmth caressed my cheek. Having ruptured the aorta, it was fruitless to check the viability of their death when they reached the ground, a pool of red mixing into the salt water stained wood. My breath was still fast, eyes dilated, and my ears ringing. My limbs had gone limp, knees giving out as I sunk into the blood without much care of stains. (I'm sure I must have looked very gentleman like, kneeling in red with it stained on my front and two lifeless vessels next to me. Way to go, Kirkland.)

When my shock finally wore off, the cheering still hadn't died down, and though still feeling like I was living an out of body experience, I reached over and plucked the hat from the (ex.) Captain's messy brown hair and placed it atop my head before grasping the jacket and doing the same (only on my body, of course.) I didn't bother with the sleeves, instead letting it sit squarely on my shoulders. The foreign blade was dropped; I have little use for other's weaponry. Nothing can compare to my own.

It was with this (maybe _somewhat_ arrogant) thought that I stood, wiping the blood from my front (and really only smearing it about) before clearing my throat, calling for attention. Needless to say, it didn't work very well, but the shout that came after did.

"Listen up, you bloody scoundrels!"

Yeah. That got their attention. With over 40 pairs of eyes trained on me it was with great pride that I raised my word was matched that many times over. The grin I sprouted was going to split my face, I just knew it.

"This ship is ours!"

The celebration was spectacular, if not stupid. Men were pulling insane stunts, wasting necessary materials, and throwing over equipment with exclamations of great joy that they were ridding themselves of Captain Crazy. In any time of mass emotion, common sense just goes out the bloody window. Quickly I ordered a halt, and I was given a sense of déjà vu after receiving their attention again.

"Well? Don't just stand there! We have work to do!"

It didn't seem to click into their heads for a few moments, but then suddenly someone must have pulled back the curtain because they were going at it with a new vigor. It was with a new energy that everyone did their part, happiness a drug that was sure to be gone by the end of the week, if not day. It was best to use it while they had it.

The grin had morphed into a smirk.

"What's the orders, Captain?"

I let two mates take the tiller while I sprawled a map onto any flat service that would support the pressure. My eyes danced over the land masses and sea charts, until I found what I was looking for.

"Set sail for the Indies, lads, there's a price to be found there." And a score to be settled.

Pirate sounded so much better than privateer.

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><p><strong>End Note:<strong> Is it good or bad that I kind of want to do a series with Pirate!England?


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